


Opportunities We’ve Had Along the Way

by doctornerdington



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Books, First Kiss, Historical References, Libraries, M/M, Trans History, Trans Male Character, food and alcohol, hand-holding, ineffable husbands, reading habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22589107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/pseuds/doctornerdington
Summary: Aziraphale loves books. He loves them a lot.Sometimes, it worries Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 87





	Opportunities We’ve Had Along the Way

_"Each of us must take into account the raw material which heredity dealt us at birth and the opportunities we have had along the way, and then work out for ourselves a sensible evaluation of our personalities and accomplishments."_

_\-- Dr. Alan Hart_

**San Francisco**   
**February 9, 1917**

The late-afternoon winter sun filtered weakly through the great front window of the University of California’s medical library. Students dozed, exhausted, in study carrels, or scurried by with stacks of books and harried faces. Aziraphale, the only being in the vicinity who was neither sleepy nor frantic, surveyed the lot of them with deep and fully apparent approbation. The musty, vanillin scent of many books all gathered together imbued the room with comfort. Anticipating a thoroughly delightful afternoon, he strode purposefully into the stacks.

An hour later, however, he was slumped against a corner shelf in uncharacteristic despair. _Elements of the Nervous System and Their Properties_. _The Syntonic Principle: Its Relation to Health and Ocular Problems_. _The Diagnosis and Treatment Of Diseases Of The Esophagus, Illustrated Edition_. He shuddered. How could there be so many beautiful books in a room, yet nothing at all to read? Resigned to a disappointing afternoon, he half-heartedly plucked down a volume that happened to catch his eye: faded apple-red with heavily worn gilt. He’d no intention of actually reading the wretched thing, but its weight was a comfort.

“See something you like?” a voice hissed at his elbow, casually sibilant.

Aziraphale startled, but covered the movement with a cough. “Certainly,” he lied. “It’s always fascinating to broaden one’s intellectual horizons.”

Crowley grinned. “If you say so, angel.”

“And where have you been, anyway?” Aziraphale asked, snappish and slightly off kilter. “I had to take care of the _Rewa_ mess in the Bristol Channel entirely on my own, and it really was a two-person job.” Oh dear, he thought. Another little fib – he’d managed the thing quite well on his own. Thirty seconds in the demon’s presence and he was sinning left and right.

It was so _good_ to see him, though. It had been an absolute age.

(It had been exactly three months.)

Crowley hummed. “Too much hard work for you, I suppose. All that splashing about in the Channel?”

Aziraphale pinked. He would not allow the demon to fluster him. He absolutely would _not_. Nor would he notice the striking way Crowley’s hair was arranged, the forward swoop just too long to be properly mannish, just too tousled to be quite respectable. No, nor the way his waistcoat (no jacket of course, the absolute devil) nipped in deliciously at his waist. He certainly, certainly would not call it a corset-like fit. He swallowed. Really, the task of Not Noticing Things About Crowley was becoming improbably onerous.

Crowley, oblivious, pulled the book from his arms. “ _Comprehensive Treatment of Chronic Pain by Medical, Interventional, and Integrative Approaches_ ” he read. “What’s this, then?” Beneath his glasses, his amber eyes cut sharply to Aziraphale’s face. “Alright, are you?”

“Oh, goodness yes–it’s nothing _personally_ relevant, thank you. I haven’t read a page of it, to be quite honest.” How gratifying for Crowley to have inquired.

Crowley raised an exquisitely-groomed eyebrow.

“In fact, there’s very little in this library to actually read,” he continued. He was stating facts, not complaining. 

Both eyebrows were now vying for victory in the race to Crowley’s hairline. He gestured at the heaving stacks, the students surrounding them, practically buried in tomes.

Aziraphale eyed them balefully. “Well. There’s no accounting for taste.”

But Crowley’s eyes remained fixed on Aziraphale’s face. There were scores of human pleasures he enjoyed. He was a demon, after all, and reveling in the many and varied temptations of the flesh was rather his professional calling card. But books? He’d always been wary of Aziraphale’s love of reading novels. To sit in a chair and stare fixedly at a single object for hours and hours? Bits of wood and pigment making stories about people doing impossible things? People he didn’t even care about? People that weren’t even _real_ half the time? He simply hadn’t the stamina. The fact that Aziraphale did always left him with a creeping sense of unease. It smacked of idolatry, somehow, which was all well and good for the humans, but not an ideal quality in an Angelic Principality. It made him nervous, was all. Books led to thinking, and thinking led to questioning, and questioning never led Angels anywhere Good. He had an Arrangement to protect, after all.

He put on his best temptation smile. “Strange, though, when you think about it,” he mused. “Should have thought this sort of book would be much more in your line. Facts and all that. Truth. Helpful information arranged and presented to benefit humans, even. Sounds positively heaven-sent.”

Aziraphale nodded reluctantly. “Oh yes. Extremely, er, virtuous. Worthy books.” He patted the nearest shelf for good measure. “Jolly helpful. They certainly do… furnish the room.”

“So why not enjoy them? Leave off the novels for a while. Expand your horizons, like you said.” Evil Satan, was he tempting an Angel to Do Good? If Hell heard about this, he’d never live it down.

Aziraphale looked at him, aghast. “My dear boy, have you tried actually reading them? It’s not a question of enjoyment. There’s simply no way to… Well! Permit me a small demonstration.” He opened the book in his arms to a random page and began to read: “ _Vagal cardiac afferent fibers likely mediate atypical anginal pain via relays through the nucleus of the solitary tract and spinal segments. The psychological state of an individual can modulate cardiac nociception via pathways involving the amygdala. Descending pathways originating from nucleus raphe magnus and the pons also can modulate cardiac nociception. Sensory input from other organs can mimic cardiac pain due to convergence of this input with cardiac input onto spinothalamic tract neurons. Reduction of converging nociceptive input …_ ”

Crowley shuddered, temptation abandoned. “Yes, alright. _Alright_. You’ve made your point.”

“I can’t very well read _that_ all afternoon.”

“’Course you can’t.” Crowley made a dismissive gesture with his hips which Aziraphale carefully failed to notice. “Still, one can see the point of a book like that for, what’d you call ‘em, helpy types. Doctors. Fiction, though – just a pack of lies, isn’t it? No help to anyone.”

“A pack of--?”

“Dunno what else you’d call made up stories. Things that never happened that we’ll all pretend did happen until we feel phony feelings about all the make-believe things? Invented people. Invented places. Flat out falsehoods, masquerading as entertainment. I’m telling you, Angel. Fiction’s one of ours. I’m almost sure of it.” Crowley hadn’t planned to open this particular can of worms today, but he was in the middle of it before he even realized he’d begun.

“Good Heavens!”

“Always a little worried about it, if I’m honest.” His mouth would not, apparently, stop. “Bit dangerous, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t want you getting ideas. Questions. That kind of thing. Choices. Not good for your sort.” He punched Aziraphale sportingly on the shoulder, then winced. Could he not be natural?

Aziraphale realized his jaw was hanging open. He closed it with a snap, and looked at Crowley with wide, blue eyes that hovered between mystification and alarm.

Crowley decided he’d made his point, said his piece. That was that. He could get on with things, now. “What are you doing here, anyway? Bit off the beaten path, America. Haven’t been here since—” He frowned. There’d been some unpleasantness in Salem, he recalled. And hadn’t he been learning that lesson the hard way for too many centuries, now? Whatever the forces of Hell could dream up, humans could best without breaking a sweat. He adjusted his glasses. “Doesn’t matter. Been a while. Something up?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “This and that. I’ve wanted to tour the libraries this side of the pond for a few decades, now. Some of them are getting rather good. The Huntington’s bought up some gorgeous manuscripts of medieval miracle plays, if you can imagine! The Chester alone is – well. I won’t bore you, but it’s worth a look in. Didn’t realize this one was—specialized, though.” He looked mournfully at the stacks. “And you? I don’t recall you expressing much fondness for the American experiment.”

“Nah. Heard you were here and thought I’d pop by.” He looked casually away. He’d forgotten the cover story he’d carefully concocted the night before. The fiction. The lie. Ha! He was definitely right about fiction.

“Really, Crowley, it’s really just a small matter – hardly worth you coming all this way.”

That stung a little, Crowley had to admit. “Not at all,” he blustered. “I’ve business of my own, don’t I? Plenty of work to go around.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale didn’t press. They each understood that their equilibrium was maintained through a system of careful omissions and redactions. “Perhaps we’re here about the same matter, then? It’s only that, they think he’s a woman.” He motioned to a slender man sitting alone in a private study carrel with a stack of books.

Crowley swiveled in disbelief. “ _That_ fellow? Why on earth …?” 

Aziraphale coughed discretely and lowered his voice. “Some small inconsistency with his, ahem, _membrum genitale_ , it appears.”

Crowley groaned volubly. Honestly. Humans. If they couldn’t burn witches, they’d find something else.

“It seems they’re planning to have him sent down in disgrace,” Aziraphale went on.

“For the supreme offense of…”

“Of being a woman, ostensibly. Yes.”

“‘They’ being?”

“Busybodies. Hypocrites. Gossips. Officious trouble-makers. Your usual lot.”

“ _My_ lot? Oh, no. Angel, I hate to break it to you, but that describes your hangers-on as much as mine.”

Aziraphale, veteran of countless drunken arguments upon this very subject, judiciously declined to audibly disagree. He pulled out the proofs of the newspaper to be printed the next morning and handed them to Crowley.

_WOMAN DOCTOR PARADES AS A MAN  
As Hospital Interne She Is Recognized By Classmates  
By Associated Press  
San Francisco, Feb. 5—Lucille Hart always wanted to be a boy, and from the time she graduated from Stanford University as a fluffy coed she has affected boyish mannerisms. This week her adventure in man’s attire was brought suddenly to a crisis when she was recognized by a former university classmate while going about her duties as an interne at the San Francisco hospital. The disclosure was made to this reporter by a Dr. R. A. Jones. Miss Hart went under the name of Dr. Alan Hart. She has the degree of M.D. from… _

“Ugh!” Crowley threw the paper down in disgust. “Alright. I get the picture.” He waved a hand around vaguely. “And I suppose you’ve been assigned to, what, ensure the good doctor’s deception is adequately punished?”

“I’m sorry–his deception?” Aziraphale looked blank.

“His, you know… Pretense?”

“His pretense at…?”

Crowley squirmed in exasperation. “Surely your lot can’t condone humans just up and changing their sexes whenever they feel so inclined? Isn’t there something about that in… I don’t know, Leviticus or some vile thing? Doesn’t it fly in the face of the Divine Plan?” He’d never cared a whit for the gender of anything, but understood it to be a strange fixation for the Other Side.

Aziraphale looked at him in mild alarm, which was quickly becoming the theme of the day. “Hush, dear. You’re drawing attention.” He took Crowley’s arm and led him deeper into the stacks. “I’m not here to send him down,” he said soothingly, “and I’m certainly not here to punish him. I’m to ensure he perseveres with his work by quelling this ridiculous scandal. He’s rather an important scientist, it seems. Key discoverer of something to do with tuberculosis and some… fiddly tube things? Dreadfully complicated, I’m afraid. I don’t quite follow it all.”

“But—”

“But nothing. God is love, Crowley. God loves Her creatures and loves to see the full expression of their souls. When they speak the truth of who they are, it is a reflection of God’s love on earth.”

Crowley blinked. “Huh.” The slight pain over his heart stabbed in again, just a little deeper. Was it a wasp? Surely not in the winter? What was going on with the insects in this wretched country, anyway? He twisted uncomfortably. He expected this was the sort of thing it would be best not to notice.

“Dr. Hart is quite right to embrace himself as the man he is, just as She made him.”

Crowley was silent. The small pain that didn’t exist wasn’t going away. 

Aziraphale realized he was still grasping Crowley’s arm, and let it drop. “We need him to invent his… invention thingy, or this tuberculosis business is going to get right out of hand.”

Released, Crowley sprawled against the shelf behind him. He was breathing, for some reason. He was unnecessarily filling his immortal lungs with corporeal air, and only half listening. Gingerly he touched his chest. “But then why—?” he murmured. He wasn’t thinking about Dr. Hart. He was thinking about things that had transpired long before human life, human memory. About God and Satan and love and its lack, about asking questions and making choices. God had made _him_ , hadn’t She?

“Why…?” Aziraphale prompted, very gently. Once upon a time, he would have been afraid to ask. Knowledge was always such a risk, but he was surprised to find himself a tiny bit braver than he used to be.

Crowley only shook his head.

“Well. I’m glad to see we can still surprise you, even after all this time.” Aziraphale’s voice, now, was very soft and close. He smiled tentatively. “If you’re not here to Thwart me, then, perhaps you’d care to collaborate? If you’re not too busy, that is. I believe you still owe me one, after that outrageous incident in Gibraltar.”

Crowley snorted. The rain of frogs in Gibraltar had been an absolute delight, and no matter how many years it would take to appease Aziraphale, it had been well worth it.

“Surely your side couldn’t object?” Aziraphale wheedled. “Smashing convention is sort of your thing, after all...”

Crowley shook himself. Matter, in this instance, over mind. “Right you are, Angel,” he replied vaguely. “Right you are.”

“Oh! I _am_ pleased.” Aziraphale very nearly glowed. Crowley abjectly failed to not notice how beautiful he was. “I shan’t even object to any of the silly little flourishes I know you like to add to these sticky situations. But first, my dear, I can’t help but notice that it’s well past tea time and I’m feeling rather peckish.” He was absolutely gagging for a cup of lapsang souchong. So deliciously smoky on the palate.

A wave of exasperated affection cut through Crowley’s strange mood, dimming the pain in his chest that didn’t exist. Maybe he just needed a drink. Probably he needed ten. “Dinner, then?” He carefully placed his hands in his pockets.

“Marvelous. Dr. Hart will be here all evening. We’ll just pop out for a bite and a bit of a chat and be back before anything interesting happens.”

* * * * *

A bite and a bit of a chat became a cocktail and a lengthy discussion, which became a bottle and an absorbing tête-à-tête, which became a brandy and a giggle. The campus restaurant was surprisingly passable for America. The roast squab with giblet sauce was very fine, though, and even Crowley was tempted to a bit of the Gettysburg pudding. The waiter then miraculously produced a bottle of moderately drinkable vinjak, for which they’d recently developed a taste, so they were forced to order cheese. Another bottle of vinjak appeared, and Aziraphale suddenly required caviar, which was accordingly delivered. It was well past midnight when they staggered out, arm in arm, flushed and content.

They stood, swaying slightly, and blinking owlishly at the night sky.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. He didn’t hiccup because he wasn’t mortal, but if he hadn’t been, he would have. “That took slightly longer than anticipated. I suppose the library’s closed by now.”

“Should think so.” Crowley nodded drunkenly. “And we haven’t even decided what to do about whasisname--”

“Hart.”

“Hart, right.”

There was a pause.

“Look, Crowley,” Aziraphale began. Beneath the surface of their dinner conversation that night, a part of him—a large part, as it happened—had been musing on what they’d managed to not talk very much about in the library. Some things, he felt, might need saying. The thought made him vaguely nauseous. But it would be worth it, wouldn’t it? To clear the air about – the books. The books, and—. Well, mostly about the books. Innocent darlings.

“Leave it, angel,” Crowley said shortly, dropping his arm.

“It’s only that I don’t want you to worry so. It’s awfully kind of you, but you were so upset. There really isn’t any need.”

Crowley grimaced and looked up at the stars through dark glasses. He’d made those, sung them into existence. Once upon a time, he’d made beautiful things. Surely that was worth something to someone.

Aziraphale wished, not for the first time, that he could see his companion’s eyes. Crowley would normally explode in rage at any reference to his extremely evident kindness, but this time he said nothing. It worried Aziraphale more than anything else that day had.

He grabbed for Crowley’s arm. “Fiction isn’t deception, my dear. It’s something else entirely. Something – oh, I don’t know. It’s not one of yours, and it’s not one of mine. It’s – it’s the humans’ own, I expect.”

“Dangerous, angel,” Crowley murmured, not pulling away. He noticed, idly, that his hands were shaking.

“It’s not, though. It’s not about _choice_ at all, don’t you see?” Aziraphale asked, with the earnestness of the very drunk. “There’s never any question of choice.”

“It’s not like I made a decision,” Crowley replied nonsensically.

“It’s only the illusion of it. The experience without the—”

“I didn’t even think. Just wanted—” Crowley was talking over him, so Aziraphale sensibly increased his volume.

“—without the consequences, you see. Some of us aren’t as brave as –”

“I wanted to know. I wanted to see for myself. I always want to know. It’s – who I”

“—as brave as you are, dear. The books. They let me—”

“—who I am. Or something. Questions! Questions, questions, questions. It’s not—I’m not—” Crowley seemed to be losing the thread of coherent thought.

“Be other people. They help me understand. They—they help me love, do you see?”

“It’s not a good thing, Angel. You mustn’t—”

“They help me to love.” It was so important to Aziraphale that Crowley understand this. He felt the urgency in all his vital parts.

“And it’s not fair, either! Is it?! How could I know? She never said—”

“When I read a book, I can be someone else. I can love from the inside out. I can—”

“Thou shalt not be curious about shit? That’s not one of the ten!”

“I can love them and be changed by them. By knowing them. By knowing something I didn’t know before.”

“Didn’t seem as bad as all that to me.”

“And that is Divine.”

“But it’s still enough to make you Fall.”

“It makes me feel less afraid. More like—“

“Make you an ugly, evil, cunning thing like me.”

“More like you, my dear.”

“It can’t ever happen to you.”

They stared at each other, blinking stupidly, as if suddenly remembering the other’s presence.

Crowley drew himself up to full height. “You can handle this on your own, Angel. Said so yourself. Just a small matter. I’m tired.” He turned and sauntered away, weaving slightly.

“I’ll see you in London, then?” Aziraphale called after him.

Crowly grunted and waved a hand vaguely. In another minute, he’d disappeared into the darkness.

Aziraphale shook his head, throwing off the muzz of alcohol. “Right then,” he said softly to himself. “I’d best get to work.” Whatever was bothering Crowley, they could deal with it later. He had a newspaper to pulp.

* * * * *

**London**   
**September, 1941**

“Really, angel, this is hardly necessary,” Crowley said under his breath as Aziraphale ushered him through the bustling Soho streets.

“Nonsense, my dear. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me—for the books! You must allow me to make the smallest token of my most sincere appreciation. I only wish I could do more.”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably. He’d much rather forget about the whole incident with the church and the Nazis and the books entirely. Made him look bad. Why had he saved those books, anyway? He couldn’t imagine. It went against his demonic instincts, certainly – not to say against every cringing, shaking, furious fear of Heaven and Hell and what they would do if they ever discovered the Arrangement. But the thought of Aziraphale’s heartbreak over the destruction of the stupid things had been too terrible to contemplate—not when he had it in his power to avert it. There were very few things Crowley believed in anymore, but he believed to his marrow that Aziraphale didn’t deserve to suffer.

And now, Aziraphale was prattling on happily, just as he should. “… know British cuisine isn’t much to your liking, my dear, so I’ve secured a table for us at Kettner’s. Have you been? No? Marvelous. Oh! I do think you’ll enjoy it. Very strange food. Unusual understandings of European techniques, but decidedly interesting, and they’ve ducked the ration entirely.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at that.

“Not my doing, I assure you!” Aziraphale blustered. “From what I understand, they have a rather illustrious patron. Just between us, I believe it to be a _royal_ connexion.” He tapped the side of his nose.

Crowley snorted. He was unimpressed with British restaurants on general principle, and preferred to focus on their liquid offerings. But he found himself, unexpectedly, intrigued. The angel knew him so well.

“Alright then,” he muttered. “Haute cuisine during war rationing must be some kind of sin.”

“That’s the spirit!” Aziraphale beamed.

They turned into the unobtrusive entrance, and were ushered immediately to a plush private room in the back of the restaurant.

“The Sassicaia, if you please, earliest you’ve got.” Aziraphale did not so much as glance at the wine list.

Crowley hummed appreciatively. “Good start.”

“I had a word earlier with the sommelier.” Aziraphale looked modestly down at his hands.

“Of course you did.” Crowley’s eyes, behind his glasses, were fond.

The wine arrived, was sampled, and found to be Good.

“Service _à la russe_ , I think, so we can take our time?”

Crowley inclined his head, sipping his wine. “I leave it to you.”

Aziraphale simply nodded at the waiter, who turned and discretely left the room. “I took the liberty of making some arrangements as to the menu.”

“Did you, now?”

“Since I know your tastes, Crowley, and I wanted everything to be perfect for you.” His face pinked. “To thank you,” he added hastily. “For the books.”

Crowley looked down at _his_ hands. Hands were so very interesting. “I told you, it’s nothing. Don’t mention it.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Tell me what you’ve been up to?” Crowley asked, at last.

Relieved, Aziraphale did, as the waiter delivered the first course.

His work on Dr. Hart’s behalf had been very good, if he said so himself; certainly one of his small successes of the century. Subtle, meticulous, and thorough: not even Gabriel at his most officious had been able to find fault with it. No flashy miracles to draw attention. No one looking would even notice his influence. It miraculously transpired that there’d been an egregious factual error in the front-page news story of the questionable edition of the newspaper, and the whole run had had to be pulped. No one had ever followed up on the Hart story. And from that day forward, the good doctor’s journey through life had been invisibly eased. Bigots were quieter around him; gossips found him singularly uninteresting. Employers failed to look into his past, and colleagues and friends recognized him only for his considerable achievements and laudable character. And indeed, Dr. Hart had excelled.

He’d averted a plague.

“I’m not doing a thing _for_ him – not a thing,” Aziraphale insisted, chewing thoughtfully on a surprising little mouthful of stone fruit and liver. He was distinctly pleased with how the whole project was going, and rather wanted to revel in it a little. He didn’t always need Crowley to swan in and save him, did he? He was a powerful, independent agent of God’s Will, and it was gratifying to remember it from time to time. Even if everything was much more fun when Crowley was around. “I’m only leveling the playing field a little, you understand? Smoothing things along. To make up for the idiocy of the humans. Everything he’s accomplishing he’s doing entirely on his own. Well – his delightful wife provides some assistance, of course, but that’s as it should be, between partners. Don’t you think?”

“Nice one,” Crowley said vaguely. He’d affected an air of forgetfulness about the whole America affair. It’s never quite the thing to reveal oneself entirely, and he thought he’d rather overplayed his hand a few too many times in the last century or so. This business with the Nazis had left him with an uncomfortable, crawling feeling in the pit of his stomach that didn’t seem to be going away. He’d resolved to avoid a repeat if he could. Thought it might be safer than looking too closely at – at whatever had been going on with him that night in San Francisco. Whatever he’d been doing when he saved the books. Blast, it was starting to become a habit, his intervention in the Angel’s reading habits. He sighed, only partially listening to his companion’s chatter.

“… his screening thingy saved hundreds of lives. Hundreds! Maybe more. Wish we’d had this sort of thing in the old twelfth century, what? Imagine!”

Crowley shuddered. He had a horror of plagues. He’d worked very hard to forget about the twelfth century entirely. “Let’s not.”

Aziraphale’s eyes softened. “No,” he said softly. “Forgive me, my dear. Do try one of these pissaladières? The anchovies are gorgeous.” He watched Crowley raise a morsel to his mouth, gratified. “In any case, Dr. Hart has made quite a name for himself, and done so much Good in the process. We’re all very pleased, our side.” He hummed happily around bit of cheese. “It should keep me in Gabriel’s favour for at least a century.” He practically wriggled with pleasure at the thought.

Crowley hummed non-committally. He very much doubted it, but didn’t wish to spoil Aziraphale’s mood. “Well done,” he said finally, sincerely.

When the final course had been cleared away, and coffee and chocolates devoured – “black as Hell, strong as death, sweet as love,” as Crowley preferred – Aziraphale ordered them a final nightcap. They sat, nursing their brandies. They’d never drunk so slowly, but neither wanted the evening to end.

“He’s incredibly brave, though, isn’t he?” Aziraphale said eventually, drunk and dreamy.

“Who, this Hart fellow?”

“Hart, yes. Imagine! He was born with a long life stretching ahead of him: a life of obligations and expectations to fulfill, of certain opportunities, but not others. Responsibilities, too, I imagine. All dealt to him by biology—nothing else. And he didn’t want it! It wasn’t right for him – it wasn’t _his_ life. And rather than towing the line, you know, and fulfilling the role he was born to, he – he dared to refuse. Raw materials be – be damned! He wrote a new story for himself. Poof! Out of nothing! He made the life he wanted. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything braver in my life.”

Crowley drained his glass. He’d removed his glasses right around the arrival of the fourth course, and his amber eyes now locked with Aziraphale’s blue. “It’s only brave because it’s so dangerous,” he said carefully.

“I know.” Aziraphale swallowed, and looked away.

“The risks, Angel…”

“I _know_.”

Crowley wasn’t sure what they were talking about anymore. He rubbed his eyes and looked around for his glasses.

“I think, however,” Aziraphale murmured, “I think Dr. Hart might say that it’s worth it.”

* * * * *

**San Francisco**   
**February 9, 2018**

It was an unseasonably warm February afternoon in San Francisco when Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves again enveloped in the stacks at the University of California’s medical library. It had been just a hundred years since their last visit. Barely an instant—yet everything felt different. They were both so much cheerier and more relaxed since they’d averted the apocalypse, for one thing, and they were happy to lounge for a while in the warmth of the brilliant sun. Around them, students sipped coffee and scrolled on their tablets in the learning commons.

“Things have changed, angel,” Crowley said approvingly. He rather fancied a coffee. Maybe a pain au chocolat. Perhaps he could tempt Aziraphale—

Aziraphale tutted. “Learning commons,” he muttered disgustedly. He’d never held with the modern trend of serving food and drink in libraries. _Really_. “Have they started already?”

“No, we’re early. Come here – got surprise for you.”

“Do you? Oh, Crowley, what is it?! I _love_ surprises!”

“I know you do,” the demon answered, amused. “Follow me.”

He stood and led Aziraphale deep into the stacks, stopping suddenly half way down a row. “This is it,” he said smugly, crossing his arms. He’d been planning to enjoy this for well over a decade.

“This…?” Aziraphale looked around in confusion.

“Look closely, angel. Where are we?”

“The University of San Francisco.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “And…?”

“Medical Library.”

“Yes. Good! And…?”

“And… Oh! Section! Let’s see… PS 3000s. PS! Crowley!” His eyes were so very bright, Crowley could barely stand to look at them.

“Knew you’d get there.”

But Aziraphale didn’t hear him, intent on scanning the shelf devoted entirely to literature. “Novels!” he was crowing. “Oh, my darlings, look at you.” He traced the spines with loving fingers, and Crowley swallowed hard.

“Take a look at PS 3515, in particular.” Crowley suggested the temptation subtly, with practiced ease.

“What…? Oh! Oh _Crowley_. He wrote a novel!” He pulled the slim volume from the shelf: _The Undaunted_ , by Dr. Alan Hart.

“Not just one—four. Influential, too. Well received. Bestsellers, even. Well, the one...”

“How wonderful! When did this happen? Why didn’t I know?”

“Wanted it to be a surprise, didn’t I? _The Undaunted_ ’s my favourite. Best of the bunch.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. “It’s…? My dear! You’ve _read_ it?” To his knowledge, Crowley had read exactly 3.7 novels in the past 6000 years—all under duress—and he hadn’t liked any of them much.

“Had to, didn’t I?”

“Did you?” Aziraphale asked, wonderingly.

Crowley shrugged helplessly. “I was curious.”

Abruptly, Aziraphale’s eyes lit up – a glow not of divine providence, but something closer to earth, closer to home.

Carefully, he replaced the book on the shelf. When he turned back to Crowley, he looked determined. Gently, he reached across the divide between them, clasped Crowley’s hand in his own, and raised it unblushingly to his lips.

Defying six thousand years of precedent, Crowley flushed from the tips of his ears to somewhere rather south of his collar.

“Thank you for my surprise, darling,” Aziraphale murmured against his knuckles, then turning his hand and pressing Crowley’s palm to his cheek. “I love it. I’ll read the book directly.”

“Well. Not—not immediately. It’s starting soon.”

“Of course. Later, then.” Aziraphale hadn’t let go of his hand. “Perhaps…” He drifted off, his eyes dreamy and vacant.

“Angel? Perhaps…?”

“Perhaps we might – read it to each other? It’s only, sometimes when I’m reading, I imagine your voice, and I wonder what it would be like. I’m curious. I want to know.”

Crowley found he was grinning unabashedly.

“I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Lovely.” Aziraphale kissed his palm. Crowley looked on with profound astonishment. Was this his angel, doing this?

They wandered out of the stacks, hand in hand, each looking somewhat dazed. Suddenly Crowley stopped dead and shook himself.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, with some alarm.

Looking around, he pulled Aziraphale back into the stacks with an urgent tug.

“Crowley, what…?” Aziraphale started, but then he was silenced by Crowley’s mouth—hot and delicious—moving against his own. Without an instant of hesitation, he wrapped his arms around the demon and kissed him back, pure instinct, pouring every feeling, every ounce of love into the kiss. There was no fear, no worry, no self-consciousness: it was an overpowering torrent. 6,000 years of love expressed in a single, perfect kiss.

Crowley whimpered. He’d not permitted himself to imagine this—he was acting completely off book here—but he’d definitely assumed a level of innocence in the angel that was not remotely in evidence. He kissed back though, kissed back for all he was worth, and his kiss was devotion, was faith, was unbreakable pledge. 

How long did they stand there, pressed tightly together, giving the only fiction shelf in the library the thrill of its lifetime? The demon and the angel both possessed the power to stop time in its tracks, and so no living creature can say.

And then, through heaving breaths, they heard a voice amplified through library speakers calling an audience to attention.

“Oh, my darling. It’s time. Shall we?” Aziraphale asked, looking at Crowley’s mouth.

“‘Spose so,” Crowley gasped. He darted in to kiss Aziraphale again, painfully briefly. “Can’t last more than half an hour, I shouldn’t think.” He kissed him again, this time lingering. “You and me—we’ve got all the time in the world.”

Aziraphale shuddered. Dropped his head and breathed against Crowley’s neck.

They pulled apart, effortfully. Crowley smiled slightly, and straightened Aziraphale’s bowtie. He couldn’t look him in the eyes, or he’d be on him again in a heartbeat.

“This is. Um. New,” he said intelligently.

“Not really,” Aziraphale replied. And that’s when Crowley knew he was in over his head.

A makeshift podium had been erected at the front of the reading room, beside a small plaque swathed in ribbon. A crowd of 50 or so students and faculty members had gathered, but Aziraphale and Crowley hung back, surveying the scene.

A student rose and stepped to the podium. “Welcome. We are here today to honour our illustrious alum, Dr. Alan Hart, with a posthumous Trailblazer Award. Alan Hart was born Alberta Lucille Hart in 1890. He never identified with his gender assignment of female, and while at our university he transitioned to a masculine gender presentation. A superb medical student, he graduated top of his class in 1917. The same year, he had his uterus removed; he is often considered a pioneer in gender affirmation surgery. Hart was an immensely important figure in the American fight against tuberculosis, as well as in the recognition of trans rights. His research and logistical acumen surely saved many lives, as did…”

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale, who was smiling broadly through misty eyes. He placed a hand reassuringly at the small of the angel’s back. His hair was so very, brilliantly white in the sun, he thought, and his eyes so very blue.

With effort, he returned his attention to the speaker, who was now reaching the end of Hart’s remarkable life. “He returned to his childhood home later in life, about which he said, ‘I came home to show my friends that I am ashamed of nothing.’”

A small group of students – the Queer Alliance, judging by their T-shirts—applauded wildly. The rest of the audience joined in.

“His story ended well, don’t you think?” Aziraphale murmured.

“He made sure that it did,” Crowley answered, his lips brushing Aziraphale’s hair.

The ceremonial ribbon cutting continued with speeches by the Provost and the Dean of Medicine, and a brief reading from Hart’s work.

Hand in hand, Aziraphale and Crowley listened and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Due to some all-consuming life circumstances, this is the first fic I've been able to complete in over a year. It feels amazing to be getting my writing brain back! I had so much fun with this. Thanks to my beautiful and brilliant beta redscudery, and thanks to you for reading, friends. xoxoxox


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